


L'autre forme de conviction

by OrpheusCrowned



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Author is a french person pissed off by the french government and it kind of shows, Enjoltaire Day 1: Embrace, Grantaire pov, M/M, Police Brutality, enjoltaire week, too much ponctuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrpheusCrowned/pseuds/OrpheusCrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a protest turns bad, Enjolras blames himself for the injured and questions his legitimacy to lead the people in the streets. Grantaire takes no shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'autre forme de conviction

The Musain is crowded with students now that the meeting in the lecture hall is over. It ended badly – cops coming for them, heavily armed, tear gas and batons and flashballs, to get them out. The times when the University was a safe place, of knowledge and free thinking, seems to be over. Three of them injured, including Joly with his bad leg – couldn’t run fast enough and Bahorel was hurt too when he tried to make the cops stop hitting him. So now the café’s full with people and anger runs, electric, burning in the air. The baristas left their side of the counter to offer them a drink and physiological saline, for their eyes. Grantaire’s taking care of Jehan, whose head is dirty bleeding. Baton, he thinks. He misses Bahorel, suddenly, Bahorel who’d know how to cheer them up and make them want to go back out there and fight. Which would be useless, in Grantaire’s opinion, but whatever – anything better than this burning, acid mix of anger and fright. It’s not the first time, but now Joly and Bahorel have been taken to the hospital by the street medics and nobody even knows if they’re okay, if it’s bad – and they’re not the only one. A journalist, too. The doorbell rings and a girl with a red headscarf enters, shouts that their friends are safe but a sixteen years-old boy is in a coma.

Silence falls and Grantaire turns toward Enjolras’ corner. Surely – surely he won’t let that happen. Surely he’ll call for vengeance. Grantaire’s waiting for it, tired already but knowing very well how the magic will happen. Enjolras is a vengeful angel and when he steps up the those tables or on the marches near the Victor Hugo statue in the courtyard of the Sorbonne, people look at him and people listen to him. He wished they didn’t, this time. Because yeah, okay, he’s afraid. Everyone is. When you’re in the cortège and suddenly you hear the scatter bomb thrown just a few meters from you – hell, that’s what happened to that sixteen years old, except the bomb was _not_ a few meters away. It could happen to anyone, Jehan or Bossuet or ‘Chetta or Enjolras. Or Enjolras, with his incredibly annoying way of never looking sweaty nor tired, untouched somehow, a fine marble still in the middle of an angry crowd, and him being the angrier of all. So Grantaire’s waiting for him to step up and start talking, with a bit of apprehension, and it seems that Combeferre is waiting to because he turned himself towards his best friend, already focused on what comes next. People who started talking to each other again progressively go silent, everyone following Combeferre’s gaze; but Enjolras isn’t speaking and the silence lingers, for three long seconds, then four, then five, and it goes on, and on. And suddenly Courfeyrac says that they should totally go and protest under the dean’s windows. Musichetta throws a punch in the air and suddenly everyone’s out, lead by Courf and ‘Chetta and Cosette.

And then the Musain’s empty. Combeferre stays, throwing a look at Enjolras standing in the corner and then sitting down in one of the comfy armchair, focused on his screen. When the other barista goes back towards the kitchen, Grantaire hesitates. Enjolras is still there, and he seems – he seems pale. Pale and silent. That’s not good. Enjolras is never pale, nor silent. A fine marble with furious red cheeks and furious red lips. And Combeferre who’s carefully reading – his twitter thread or something. After a while, during which he makes a coffee with hands that tremble a little, he ends up walking to him.

"Enjolras?"

The blonde is looking at the floor, absent-mindedly playing with a flyer he actually tore in smaller pieces.

"Enjolras, you ok?"

Only then he looks up, and his eyes only pass on Grantaire to immediately take the measure of the empty room.

"They’re all gone? All of them?"

"Not ‘Ferre. He’s still here. See, right there."

"Right."

And then, silence, again.

"The dean’s windows? Right?"

Enjolras’ words are crumbled, and Grantaire catches Combeferre looking up with a worried expression on his face.

"That’s it. They went with Courfeyrac and Musichetta and Cosette.", Grantaire states carefully, wondering if Enjolras actually heard what happened earlier. Suddenly a rush of fear hits him.

"Are you hurt too? Are you ok?"

"No, I’m fine. I’m fine. Sorry. I heard it. I just-" - and falls silent again.

Combeferre, discreetly, stands up, and makes his way to the bathroom.

"I just- I didn’t think- I mean, I’m used to the cops being brutal when we go and, do, you know, when we use violence ourself, like that time when we threw rocks at that bank that night and remember how Bahorel did-"

"I wasn’t there, Enjolras. But yeah. I see what you mean."

"Do you?"

The way Enjolras looks at him now – shit, _that_ hurts. Grantaire’s turn to contemplate the floor and its pretty pattern. "Just go on."

"It was a crowd. A fucking crowd. Peaceful. Kids. Just kids. We’re – i mean, we’re adults, right? We’re responsible."

He can’t keep himself from smiling. "Now if you were fifteen and someone told you that…"

"Come on, you know what I mean." Enjolras though has the decency to look embarrassed.

"It was a peaceful crowd and a kid’s in a coma. I don’t know what they’re doing, R. I don’t know. I fear people on our side will get hurt, _innocent_ _people_."

Grantaire opens his mouth and then shuts it. Suddenly he can’t seem to find a fitting answer. Enjolras looks at him, really looks at him, and he seems hurt – like he can’t figure out the meaning of all this, the reasons that make them open fire on civilians.

"Innocent people", he says again. "I don’t know if we-"

"I’m gonna stop you right there."

Enjolras frowns, but he does stop, and sets his eyes on him. Grantaire opens his mouth and suddenly finds himself out of breath. He has to talk, though, he has to, because Enjolras now – he’s never seen him like this, with something that looks like fear on his face. At last the words come.

"People are here because they want to. They’re not following you, Enjolras. You need to understand that. I’m sorry, it’s really not good for you ego, but they’re not here for your pretty face or your grand discours or – they’re here because they want to change things. Because they’re free. Or at least want to be. They chose to come, and to let you guide them. And yeah, they’ll fight. Did you see them?! Man, they were shouting and protecting each other and insulting the cops and did you hear that stuff about Valls- I mean, yeah. Free will." He smiles, softly. "They’ll follow you not because of you, but because they have something they believe in."

"What about you?"

"Sorry?"

"Why are you doing this? Helping, with the injured and the coffee and the- the talking-"

"I have something I believe in, too."

And now Enjolras’ smiling, and his hand – shit, his hand is resting on Grantaire’s arm, actually on Grantaire’s actual arm. _Breathe_.

"So. You coming, leader ? We have a protest to attend to."


End file.
